IN HIDING.
Thus we began our miserable flight. Thus, in silence, we sat in the
shade of the linney all the morning. Outside, the blackbird warbled
in the wood and the lark sang in the sky. But we sat in silence,
not daring so much as to ask each other if those things were real
or if we were dreaming a dreadful dream. Still and motionless lay
my father's body, as if the body of a dead man. He felt no pain--of
that I am assured; it makes me sick even to think that he might have
suffered pain from his wound; he had no sense at all of what was
going on. Yet once or twice, during the long trance or paralysis
into which he had fallen, he opened his lips as if to speak. And he
breathed gently--so that he was not dead. Barnaby, for his part,
threw himself upon his face, and, laying his head upon his arm,
fell asleep instantly. The place was very quiet; at the end of the
meadow was a brook, and there was a wood upon the other side; we
could hear the prattling of the water over the pebbles; outside the
linney, a great elm-tree stretched out its branches; presently I saw
a squirrel sitting upon one and peering curiously at us, not at all
afraid, so still and motionless we were. I remember that I envied
the squirrel. He took no thought even for his daily bread. He went
not forth to fight. And the hedge-sparrows, no more afraid than
if the linney was empty, hopped into the place and began picking
about among the straw. And so the hours slowly passed away, and by
degrees I began to understand a little better what had happened to
us, for at the first shock one could not perceive the extent of the
disaster, and we were as in a dream when we followed Barnaby out of
the town. The great and splendid army was destroyed; that gallant
hero, the Duke, was in flight; those of the soldiers who were not
killed or taken prisoners were running hither and thither trying to
escape; my father was wounded, stricken to death, as it seemed, and
deprived of power to move, to feel, or to think. While I considered
this, I remembered again how he had turned his eyes from gazing into
the sky, and asked me what it mattered even if the end would be
death to him and ruin unto all of us. And I do firmly believe that
at that moment he had an actual vision of the end, and really saw
before his eyes the very things that were to come to pass, and that
he knew all along what the end would be. Yet he had delivered his
soul--why, then he had obtained his prayer--and by daily exhortation
had doubtless done much to keep up the spirit of those in the army
who were sober and godly men. Did he also, like Sir Christopher,
have another vision which should console and encourage him? Did he
see the time to follow when a greater than the Duke should come and
bring with him the deliverance of the country? There are certain
gracious words with which that vision closes (the last which he
did expound to us), the vision, I mean, of the Basket of Summer
Fruit. Did those words ring in his mind and comfort him even in the
prospect of his own end? Then my thoughts, which were swift and yet
beyond my control, left him and considered the case of Barnaby. He
had been a Captain in the Green Regiment; he would be hanged, for
certain, if he were caught. My sweetheart, my Robin, had also been a
Captain in the Duke's army. All the Duke's officers would be hanged
if they were caught. But perhaps Robin was already dead--dead on
the battlefield--his face white, his hands stiff, blood upon him
somewhere, and a cruel wound upon his dear body! Oh, Robin! Yet I
shed no tears. Humphrey, who had been one of the Duke's chyrurgeons,
he would also be surely hanged if he were caught. Why--since all
would be hanged--why not hang mother and me as well, and so an end!
About noon Barnaby began to stir; then he grunted and went to sleep
again: presently he moved once more, then he rolled over on his
broad back and went to sleep again. It was not until the sun was
quite low that he awoke, sitting up suddenly, and looking about him
with quick suspicion, as one who hath been sleeping in the country
of an enemy, or where wild beasts are found.
Then he sprang to his feet and shook himself like a dog.
'Sister,' he said, 'thou shouldst have awakened me earlier. I have
slept all the day. Well, we are safe, so far.' Here he looked
cautiously out of the linney towards the wood and the road. 'So
far, I say, we are safe. I take it we had best not wait until
to-morrow, but budge to-night. For not only will the troopers scour
the country, but they will offer rewards; and the gipsies--ay, and
even the country-folk--will hasten to give information out of their
greedy hearts. We must budge this very night.'
'Whither shall we go, Barnaby?'
He went on as if he had not heard my question.
'We shall certainly be safe here for to-night; but for to-morrow I
doubt. Best not run the chance. For to-day their hands are full:
they will be hanging the prisoners. Some they will hang first and
try afterwards, some they will try first and hang afterwards. What
odds if they are to be hanged in the end? The cider orchards never
had such fruit as they will show this autumn, if the King prove
revengeful--as, to judge by his sour face, he will be.'
Here he cursed the King, his sour face, his works and ways, his
past, his present, and his future, in round language, which I hope
his wounded father did not hear.
'We must lie snug for a month or two somewhere, until the unlucky
Monmouth men will be suffered to return home in peace. Ay! 'twill be
a month and more, I take it, before the country will be left quiet.
A month and more--and Dad not able to crawl!'
'Where shall we lie snug, Barnaby?'
'That, Sister, is what I am trying to find out. How to lie snug with
a couple of women and a wounded man who cannot move? 'Twas madness
of the poor old Dad to bring thee to the camp, Child. For now we
cannot--any of us--part company, and if we stay together 'twill
maybe bring our necks to the halter.'
'Leave us, Barnaby,' I said. 'Oh! leave us to do what we can for the
poor sufferer, and save thyself.'
'Ta, ta, ta, Sister--knowest not what thou sayest. Let me consider.
There may be some way of safety. As for provisions, now: we have the
basket full--enough for two days say--what the plague did Dad, the
poor old man, want with women when fighting was on hand? When the
fighting is done, I grant you, women, with the tobacco and punch,
are much in place. Those are pretty songs, now, that I used to sing
about women and drink.'
'Barnaby, is this a time to be talking of such things as drink and
singing?'
'All times are good. Nevertheless, all company is not fitting.
Wherefore, Sis, I say no more.'
'Barnaby, knowest thou aught of Robin? Or of Humphrey?'
'I know nothing. They may be dead; they may be wounded and
prisoners; much I fear, knowing the spirit of the lads, that both
are killed. Nay, I saw Humphrey before the fight, and he spoke to
me----'
'What did Humphrey say?'
'I asked why he hung his head and looked so glum, seeing that we
were at last going forth to meet the King's army. This I said
because I knew Humphrey to be a lad of mettle, though his arm is
thin and his body is crooked. "I go heavy, Barnaby," he said,
speaking low lest others should hear, "because I see plainly that,
unless some signal success come to us, this our business will end
badly." Then he began to talk about the thousands who were to have
been raised all over the country; how he himself had brought to
the Duke promises of support gathered all the way from London to
Bradford Orcas, and how his friends in Holland even promised both
men and arms; but none of these promises had been kept; how Dad
had brought promises of support from all the Nonconformists of the
West, but hardly any, save at Taunton, had come forward; and how
the army was melting away, and no more recruits coming in. And then
he said that he had been the means of bringing so many to the Duke
that if they died their deaths would lie upon his conscience. And
he spoke lovingly of Robin and of thee, Sister. And so we parted,
and I saw him no more. As for what he said, I minded it not a straw.
Many a croaker turns out in the long run to be brave in the fight.
Doubtless he is dead; and Robin, too. Both are dead. I take it,
Sis, thou hast lost thy sweetheart. Cry a little, my dear,' he added
kindly; ''twill ease the pain at thy heart. 'Tis natural for a woman
to cry.'
'I cannot cry, Barnaby: I wish I could. The tears rise to my eyes,
but my throat is dry.'
'Try a prayer or two, Sister. 'Twas wont to comfort the heart of my
mother when she was in trouble.'
'A prayer? Brother, I have done nothing but pray since this
unfortunate rebellion began. A prayer? Oh, I cannot pray! If I were
to pray now it would be as if my words were echoed back from a wall
of solid rock. We were praying all yesterday; we made the Sabbath
into a day of prayer without ceasing; and this morning, when you
opened the door, we were praising and thanking God for the mercy of
the great victory bestowed upon us. And at that time the poor brave
men----'
'They were brave enough to the end,' said Barnaby.
'The poor brave men lying cold and dead upon the field (among them,
maybe, Robin!), and the prisoners huddled together somewhere, and
men hanging already upon the gibbets. We were praising God--and my
father lying on the ground stricken to death, and thou a fugitive,
and all of us ruined! Prayer? How could I pray from such a pit of
woe?'
'Child'--my mother lifted her pale face--'in the darkest hour pray
without ceasing. Even if there happen a darker hour than this, in
everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your
requests be made known--with thanksgiving, my daughter.'
Alas! I could not obey the apostolic order. 'Twas too much for me.
So we fell into silence. When the sun had quite gone down Barnaby
went forth cautiously. Presently he came back.
'There is no one on the road,' he said. 'We may now go on our way.
The air of Taunton is dangerous to us. It breeds swift and fatal
diseases. I have now resolved what to do. I will lift my father upon
the cart again and put in the pony. Four or five miles sou'-west or
thereabouts is Black Down, which is a No-Man's-Land. Thither will
we go and hide in the combs, where no one ever comes, except the
gipsies.'
'How shall we live Barnaby?'
'That,' he said, 'we shall find out when we come to look about us.
There is provision for two days. The nights are warm. We shall
find cover or make it with branches. There is water in the brooks
and dry wood to burn. There we may, perhaps, be safe. When the
country is quiet, we will make our way across the hills to Bradford
Orcas, where no one will molest you, and I can go off to Bristol
or Lyme, or wherever there are ships to be found. When sailors are
shipwrecked, they do not begin by asking what they shall do on dry
land: they ask only to feel the stones beneath their feet. We must
think of nothing now but of a place of safety.'
'Barnaby, are the open hills a proper place for a wounded man?'
'Why, Child, for a choice between the hills and what else may happen
if we stay here, give me the hills, even for a wounded man. But,
indeed'--he whispered, so that my mother should not hear him--'he
will die. Death is written on his face. I know not how long he will
live. But he must die. Never did any man recover from such evil
plight.'
He harnessed the pony to the cart, which was little more than a
couple of planks laid side by side, and laid father upon them, just
as he had brought him from Taunton. My mother made a kind of pillow
for him, with grass tied up in her kerchief, and so we hoped that he
would not feel the jogging of the cart.
'The stream,' said Barnaby, 'comes down from the hills. Let us
follow its course upwards.'
It was a broad stream with a shallow bed, for the most part flat and
pebbly, and on either side of the stream lay a strip of soft turf,
broad enough for the cart to run upon. So that, as long as that
lasted, we had very easy going, my mother and I walking one on each
side, so as to steady the pillow and keep the poor head upon it from
pain. But whether we went easy, or whether we went rough, that head
made no sign of feeling aught, and lay, just as in the linney, as if
dead.
I cannot tell how long we went on beside that stream. 'Twas in a
wild, uncultivated country; the ground ascended; the stream became
narrower and swifter; presently the friendly strip of turf failed
altogether, and then we had trouble to keep the cart from upsetting.
I went to the pony's head, and Barnaby, going behind the cart,
lifted it over the rough places, and sometimes carried his end of
it. The night was chilly; my feet were wet with splashing in the
brook, and I was growing faint with hunger, when Barnaby called a
halt.
'We are now,' he said, 'at the head of the stream. In half an hour,
or thereabouts, it will be break of day. Let us rest. Mother, you
must eat something. Come, sister, 'tis late for supper, and full
early for breakfast. Take some meat and bread and half a cup of
cider.'
It is all I remember of that night.